In Plain Sight
by seeandobserve
Summary: Months after his return to 221B, Sherlock notices something's different. Something is off about John Watson, and Sherlock is determined to figure out what. Of course, that doesn't mean he's going to like it... (Post-Reichenbach, not compliant with information about Season 3, and I refuse to give Watson a moustache)
1. Interesting Connections

Sherlock's return had gone fairly smoothly, as far as he was concerned. John hadn't punched him, at least, although he put that down to his physical state at the time.

Staggering back to 221B after three years was odd, to say the least. Part of him had started to think he'd never be finished with Moriarty's web. It seemed endless and misleading, with missing parts here and there, but now it was gone.

Or, so he hoped. But Sherlock had had enough, and he was coming home.

John's face when he opened the door was the oddest mix of emotions Sherlock had ever seen before. Anger, and shock and joy and most likely three or four things Sherlock couldn't tell you the name of because they weren't important.

"I'm sorry, John, it was necessary, no time to explain I've got—" but John had already looped an arm around Sherlock's waist and was helping him up the stairs, asking him about injuries and how they'd happened.

_God, _Sherlock thought, looking over John, _I had no idea he would... _John had lost weight, a lot of weight, so eating a lot less, and he was sleeping less as well, though not by choice. No girlfriends, and, on that matter, he doubted much human contact aside from keeping him sane. And his nightmares had returned. All things considered, Sherlock was in a much worse state than John was, but he never suspected, never considered, that he was that _important _to the army doctor. He'd given John a year to get over his death, but here he was.

Still... grieving? Mourning? Sherlock wasn't sure what you'd call it, as he'd never had reason to do it. "I'm sorry," he muttered again, as John put him down on the couch.

"Shut up or I'll punch you, bleeding or not," said John, though the words didn't come off as harsh as intended.

That night, Sherlock slept better than he had in years.

But two moths later, Sherlock knew something was up. He wasn't about to act on it rashly, of course, because the more he found out the less he liked. Moriarty seemed to be coming back, even after his confirmed death. Hell, Sherlock had _seen _him shoot himself in the face, and yet every crime they solved seemed to be leading to a bigger one. A maze of sorts, and Sherlock didn't like not knowing where he was going.

John told him in was all in his head, but John couldn't _see _things like he did, couldn't see the bigger picture, the connections between the crimes. If he wasn't so worried about Moriarty's return (even if more for the sake of his _friends _than his own), he would've marveled at it. It must've taken so long to plan out, painstaking preparation from months, or possibly even years in advance.

Although that was just it, wasn't it? Years in advance, they were too busy dealing with Sherlock to plan things like these. It just wasn't happening.

And then there was John.

John kept telling him it was all in his head, that Moriarty couldn't come back, again and again.

On such a conversation, Sherlock snapped, without fulling thinking about it, "You thought I was dead, and Irene as well, so don't tell me _death _will stop Moriarty from doing what he pleases!"

There was a slight pause, and for a moment, Sherlock could've sworn there was a mischievous glint in John's eye, right before he exploded. "You jumped off a bloody building and disappeared for three years! You didn't even tell me you were alive! I had to _bury _you Sherlock, I had to speak at your funeral!"

John was only getting himself worked up and they both knew it, but Sherlock stared at him impassively, waiting for the moment he'd be done. "I have buried more than enough people in my lifetime, and you go on and make me do it again. Even a simple text would've been nice, what did you think I'd do, make it public? 'Hey look I got a text from a dead man' oh yeah, that'd go over _great." _John stopped for breath, still fuming, but instead of saying anymore, he turned his back on Sherlock and stormed to his bedroom.

Sherlock sighed, resting his hands on the arm of the armchair and leaning back a bit. He deserved to be yelled at, he knew, and he supposed this was making up for nothing of the sort in the first week he was back. But Sherlock was more concerned about the look a split second before yelling at him.

It was _pride. _

That was the first clue that John Watson was not himself. And, as time went on, little by little his friend's behaviour altered. Just slightly, not so much that anyone would notice.

But he was starting to catch up with Sherlock's deductions, cutting him off mid-sentence in a way that suggested he'd simply spoke out loud. He'd muttered a hasty "Sorry" the first time it had happened, but Sherlock had stopped examining the body and started examining John. After a minute, he muttered, "That's correct," and there it was again.

That smug look of pride that was so different from what he usually saw on John's face was enough. Enough for Sherlock to keep tabs on John's behaviour changes, enough for him to double-check John's sleeping patterns, but quietly, quietly. John couldn't know he was investigating, because if something was afoot...

Added with the connected crimes recently, he had to be very, very careful if someone unexplained happened, whether it came from someone he trusted or not.

Also, it seemed there was a secondary reason for Sherlock not to straight-out ask John, and to keep his deductions a secret. He refused to acknowledge its existence, because it was ridiculous and useless and full of _sentiment. _But it was there.

Sherlock had already lost John's trust once, and he wasn't about to do it again.

Because it was starting to come to a point where Sherlock _needed _John there, or else he would come mad, or perhaps turn into a serial killer himself. Which, of course, wasn't _too _bad a way to go.

Or at least, it hadn't been before he met John.

Either way, something was up with John, and whether it took him a few days or several years (though if his skills failed him that much then he might as well abandon all hope), he was going to figure it out.

**So here we go. This is your advanced warnings; this is going to contain Johnlock, but it's not going to be happy or fluffy and more than likely it will be used to taunt somebody. As well as that, this story is fulfilling my need for a dark!John fic, as well as trying to improve my writing from Sherlock's point of view. Enjoy and stuff.**


	2. Startling Discoveries

Within the week, Sherlock had a mental list of every change in John's character, tiny as they were. He'd gotten faster at deductions, catching up with Sherlock himself, and at this point Sherlock had started to think John was _holding back _insights so Sherlock could say them.

His sleeping patterns were different, though that was probably a side effect of the three years Sherlock had been gone. John was up until all hours, and Sherlock was fairly sure he'd been on the phone multiple times.

But what mostly got him, was this seemed deliberate on John's part. A _catch me if you can, _if you will. He was leaving these clues on purpose so Sherlock would catch on.

Which begged the question, what _wasn't _he seeing? What was he missing from the puzzle, what was John _actually _trying to hide from him?

Sherlock sighed, pulling out his flatmate's laptop, guessing the laptop password correctly within a matter of minutes (it had been Sherlock's name when he had returned, and though it was fairly useless for protection, Sherlock had taken a mental note on the meaning of that action, though he didn't have much to go on).

Clicking around a few files, Sherlock opened the main browser to look up the internet history.

There wasn't any.

Sherlock double-checked every browser on the computer.

Nothing. No bookmarks, no history, no recent downloads... Sherlock allowed himself half of a sigh. John had long-since stopped caring what Sherlock saw on his laptop, and usually sufficed with leaving threatening messages on a few files so Sherlock knew he should stop messing around (Not that he was going to stop, of course, John wasn't going to act on anything. Well, there was that one time John had smashed an egg on his head, but that was different).

As always, it was labelled **READ ME** and sat in the center of the desktop. Sherlock smiled slightly, wondering what ridiculous threat he was going to be faced with this time.

As soon as he read the words on the page, the smile dropped from his face.

There they were, four simple words sitting in the upper left corner of the document. Taunting, unsettling.

_'Figured it out yet?' _

This was a puzzle, a game, and he'd just missed how much John was onto him. Yesterday, the computer wasn't like this. It had a silly threat in this document, and as always he could've read anything John had done recently.

Sherlock checked the clock, before pushing the computer to the side and heading up to John's room. Clean, as always. Hideous jumpers in their drawers, as well as every other piece of clothing. Some were strewn about where John hadn't bothered to pick them up after taking them off, but it was mostly fairly well taken care of. His gun was in his nightstand, as well as—

Sherlock stopped, forgetting his goal for a moment, sliding out the piece of paper. It had been crinkled, and carefully smoothed out, multiple times. It wasn't anything important, just a note about missing groceries that Sherlock had stuck to the fridge.

Truthfully, Sherlock had forgotten he'd written it. Or rather, he'd erased from his memory. But it was the last thing he'd written in 221B, the last piece of writing John must've had when he jumped off of that roof.

Sherlock bit his lip, tucking the paper back where it was. It had been two months since he'd returned, and he was still finding things like that, little clues around 221B of how much he was missed.

With a huff, Sherlock left the room. Nothing he was looking for, only a useless bout of sentiment over an event that had already gone and passed.

Sherlock checked the clock again. John should be home from work soon, and so he flopped down on the couch and closed his eyes, thinking about the problem as a whole. This had suddenly taken precedence over the double-homicide they were dealing with.

John was revealing only what he wanted, just enough information to get across what he wanted, which meant there was something he was keeping to himself soon. John wasn't _easy _to read, but he wasn't hard to read either. But if Sherlock was missing something (and all evidence pointed that way), then that added a whole new level.

Breathing heavily, he sunk deeper into his mind, considering more, taking in all possible connections, and he was close to _something, _and—

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he huffed at John, sitting up straight. "I was _thinking, _John," he said irritably, rubbing his temples. He knew he'd be able to retrace his thoughts as soon as he got a few moments of silence, it wouldn't take too long.

John raised his eyebrows. "You're been _thinking _for a good couple of hours since I got home. And I was home late."

"It was a difficult problem." He looked up at John. "Have a seat, I need to discuss something with you."

John gestured to the kitchen. "Can it wait? I was just going to make—"

Sherlock waved his hand. "More important than food."

Slowly, John sat down across from Sherlock as he grabbed the blogger's computer and flipped it around, showing him the document he'd seen earlier. A slow smile spread across John's face as he read the words. "Oh, so _that's _what we're talking about. I can assure you dinner is more important." He stood up, heading to the kitchen, but Sherlock caught his arm.

"John. Sit down."

John looked like he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes and giggle at the same time as he sat back down. "So, _have _you figured it out yet?" Sherlock didn't answer, and John laughed. "So that's a no, I'll take it. I also take it you were thinking about this and not the case. Too bad, the man behind it seems fairly competent."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "You know the perpetrator's gender, then?"

John leaned back in seat, not answering, only grinning. It was taunting, and he'd only seen that sort of grin a few times before, worn by people he'd already outsmarted.

It was not pleasant at all coming from John.

"If you're suggesting you are the killer, that's impossible, you have not had nearly enough time."

John nodded. "Alright, true." After pause, he added, "Do you want a hint? Because I don't mind."

Sherlock growled in frustration. "Oh, _fine, _John, I'll play your silly little game. Now, _what's the hint?" _His voice was full of sarcasm and scorn, which stemmed right from not understanding. He had no idea what he was getting into, and it was something he didn't like at all.

"Every fairlytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." The words were nonchalant, as though it was a phrase you said everyday, but they caused Sherlock's racing mind to stop, just to process it.

John wasn't there, couldn't have heard it, there was no way.

_Unless... _

As if reading his mind, John added. "Though with this action, I'd hardly call myself old-fashioned."

And suddenly everything snapped into place, the connections between the crimes, John knowing much more than he should, the purposeful late-night phone calls, the computer, and Sherlock's mind was going full-tilt, as though it was a train heading off a cliff—

_"Moriarty?"_

"There it is!" John stood up, looking rather proud. He wandered off to the kitchen, looking through the food. "We're out of milk again Sherlock, did you know?"

**A/N: In which I can properly be specific here now. Someone's probably already written this somewhere, but I do not care. **

**So when I say, "Contains Johnlock" that also technically means Sheriarty... [shrugs] hopefully what I mean should be evident within a chapter or two. Probably two.**


	3. Train Wreck

Sherlock barely acknowledged John's question, because, of course, it wasn't important. He pressed his fingers to his temples and considered the three years he spent wiping out Moriarty's web. He must've missed something, anything...

"You're awfully quiet for someone who's just discovered they live with a consulting criminal," said John, not really turning around. "Do you want an explanation or anything? Y'know, anything I can do to help?"

He actually sounded _concerned, _as though he wanted to help. That was laughable. Sherlock almost surprised himself at how much anger and betrayal he felt at this revelation.

John Watson, his John, someone he'd learned to trust and someone who put up with him, the one of the only people in the world who hadn't secretly (or not so secretly) hated him since he opened his mouth, was a lie.

It was all a ruse, and he fell for it, oh _god _did he fall for it. He should've known it was too good to be true, it was _always _too good to be true. This was why he never had friends, this was why he never cared for _sentiment... _

"Yes, actually," his tone was harsh, and cold, devoid of anything John— or whoever he was— could read. "I'm assuming you hired Rich Brook to be your stand-in to deal with me."

"Uhm-hm." John was facing him now, leaning against the counter-top casually; it was so infuriating, to have him just _stand _there—

"The pool. No one was in any real danger, were they?" That too. He'd thought it had been Moriarty using John against him to get his point across, but now, _now— _well, Sherlock didn't know.

"No, not really. I don't intend on dying quite yet, though I don't expect I have a long life expectancy at any rate." He still sounded the same, and there wasn't the same aura Moriarty gave off, it was just _John. _

"You killed off your actor?"

"Told him they were blanks so only shoot if necessary. He shot, they weren't blanks." John was back looking for food, and with a sigh, closed the fridge. "It looks like we're going to have to order in or something, there's nothing here."

Something snapped in Sherlock's mind, and he sat up quickly, slamming both fists onto the coffee table. "WHO ARE YOU?" he shouted, looking up at John, letting all the anger come through but nothing else, nothing incriminating, nothing that would show what he felt beyond that.

John blinked, as though the outburst was surprising, and maybe it was. Nevertheless, he made to answer it. "I'm a consulting criminal. Neither employees nor clients know what I look like, and James Moriarty is a cover, someone completely made up."

"No, no, no, no," muttered Sherlock, who felt he needed to move now, needed to do something, "Who are _you?"_

"Oh." John paused for a second, thinking it over. "Your flatmate. I suppose you can kick me out if you want."

"What's to stop me from turning you in?"

John laughed this time, a genuine laugh that lasted longer than Sherlock liked. "You think anyone'd believe that?" He said, before laughing again.

"Fine," said Sherlock evenly, "What's to stop me from killing you?"

John sobered up fairly fast at that, looking over Sherlock very carefully, just to see— and then he cocked his head to the left, and spoke, tone changed drastically. "I don't know." He paused, before saying, almost quiet enough to be himself. "Could you do it, Sherlock? Could you kill me? All I am now is more than I was..." There was another pause, and John cracked a smile. "You won't kill me."

"You're that sure, are you?" Sherlock made no move to get any sort of weapon, and only raised an eyebrow.

"Yes." said John, picking up the phone. "Chinese?"

It took Sherlock a moment to catch on to the question, and when it did click, he gave John a look of misunderstanding. "You're still ordering?"

John snorted. "Not all of us can fast for weeks, Sherlock. And whatever great drama has just happened, I don't intend to stop eating because of it."

"I'm not hungry." The words were true; he'd lost what little appetite he had with this conversation.

"Suit yourself."

The way their conversation switched back and forth between being trivial and calm and being absolutely earth-shattering was _astounding, _and truth be told, Sherlock hated it. He hated it because he didn't understand, hated it because there was no way for him to understand and with every word from John's mouth he seemed farther from grasping the whole picture.

_Oh, get a grip on yourself, _he thought, laying back down on the couch. But it was hard. Sherlock always had control of his emotions, and now they were on the loose. The strangest mix of emotions he'd ever felt, all at once.

It seemed like no time at all when John had put down the phone, and Sherlock could feel his flatmate's gaze on him, even though he could be bothered to look. _"What?" _

"You," said John simply. "Your reaction is just... different. Different than I thought it would be." After a moment, he seemed to loose interest in the conversation, and headed upstairs, calling down, "Tell me when the food gets here!"

Sherlock didn't move. He was too busy.

Thinking.

_Feeling. _

Yes, Sherlock Holmes most definitely hated feelings.

**A/N: First PSA of the sort; this is the last chapter for awhile that is likely to have one of these, but I just thought I'd tell you. Not everything I'm thinking comes onto paper right, so if something unclear, drop me a comment and I'll clarify it as best I can, if it's not meant to be vague.**


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